


Citadel of the Ladies

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, sexual innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: What are women supposed to do when their men ride off to a pointless war? A Middle Earth retelling of a possibly recognisable tale. Written for the Teitho Challenge "Rebellion" (first place).Beware - sexual innuendo (nothing graphic though).
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30





	Citadel of the Ladies

_**Prologue** _

Arwen stood alone; behind her, the White tree spread against a blue sky.

“If this were the tryst of Yavanna, celebrating the harvest of grapes for the year's wine, or a feast of Nessa, the dancer, or the games and celebrations for Tulkas, the wrestler, or the wild excesses of the festival of Irmo, lord of dreams, then the women with their tambourines would block the rowdy streets. But now there's not a woman to be seen. Except – ah, yes – here comes the Steward's wife. Good day, Éowyn.”

“Good day, my Queen. But why do you look so concerned?”

“I have called the women of Gondor to a meeting of the foremost importance, and yet they are not here. Do they lie a bed, between smooth sheets, reclining on soft downy pillows?”

Éowyn smiled. “I think it more likely that they wrangle toddlers and indolent husbands.” Her smile turned to a frown at this admission, but she continued. “Fear not, they will gather at your bidding, if not necessarily in a timely fashion. But will you tell me what this is about?”

“It concerns the Haradric princess you found riding through the woods of Ithilien and brought here under a flag of truce.”

“Is she still under your protection?”

“Nay, she has returned to her kingdom, to put her side of our bargain into effect. And now we must see to ours – food, water, wine, bedding – all must be prepared and strapped to pack animals. But first I must persuade the women of this fair city of the importance of my plan. We women of Gondor have a quest ahead of us.”

_**Scene 1 – The Gondorian encampment, on a hillside above a wadi, deep in the debatable lands. In the distance, the tents and flags of the Haradrim can be seen on the other side of the valley.** _

“The old ruin on the hill… Sire… My Lord...”

The scout was out of breath but nonetheless bowed respectfully to his liege and captain.

“Report, lieutenant,” said Faramir, crisply.

“It is flying banners, my lord captain. There are troops upon the battlements.”

“What manner of banners?” demanded Erchirion, then winced at his unintentional rhyme.

“The stars and tree of Gondor, my lord. And the moon of Ithilien. And the running horse of Rohan. The swan of Dol Amroth. And…” The scout's puzzlement was evident. “The mountain lion, rampant, of Near Harad. The golden two headed dragon of Far Harad. The mountain eagle of Rhun. All of them interspersed with brightly coloured silks – Yavanna's spring yellow, Uinen's deepest blue, Nienna's enfolding pink, Tulkas' richest red.”

“Banners of both sides,” Imrahil mused.

“And the troops upon the battlements?” asked Aragorn.

“They include some skilled archers, Sire. Even now, my comrade is with the healers, having an arrow removed from his rump.”

“That doesn't sound too skilled,” said Faramir, dismissively.

“Except that we clearly heard a woman's voice saying 'Don't shoot to kill, that would undermine our whole purpose,' then an answering voice say 'Well, I recognise those two, and one of them's my bloody husband. Never bothers to get off his arse when he's home on leave, so I reckon this is my chance to make sure the lazy bugger doesn't get to sit on it for a couple of weeks.' Next thing I knew, he was on the ground in agony. Had to lay him flat over his saddle to get him back to camp.”

Imrahil gave a quiet chuckle. “So actually a very skilled shot indeed. Did you recognise the voices?”

The scout turned bright red. “Well I guess one was Behor's wife. The one who actually shot the arrow. But the other one… I think… I believe… I could be wrong of course… but…”

“Out with it, man,” Imrahil prompted.

“I think it was your daughter, your highness. Err, that would be your wife, sire,” he added, turning to Éomer.

_**Scene 2 – A ruined fortress on a rocky outcrop above the wadi.** _

The party, led by a herald carrying a flag of truce, dismounted in front of the ruin. Aragorn and Éomer stood side by side, flanked on the left by Faramir and Imrahil and on the right by Elfhelm and Éothain. Behind them stood assorted lesser nobles, including Imrahil's sons. As expected, but nonetheless somewhat discomfiting, a little distance away stood an equivalent gathering of Haradrim – Arwaz, king of the desert nomads, Nadim, king of the coastal city state of Madruk, and Dawud, king of the mountain stronghold of Imbar, each with his own retinue.

Elfhelm was still trying to get over the shock of the arrival of the messenger earlier in the day. The horse had approached, its rider bearing a laurel branch by way of truce. He had nearly fainted clear away at the shock of discovering that the rider was in fact the elder of his two daughters. She had presented Elessar and Éomer with hand written missives, which had turned out to be from their respective queens, demanding a temporary cessation of hostilities, a promise not to attack the Haradrim contingent, an assurance that similar promises were sought from the Haradrim, and a parley to take place in front of the castle ruins.

Replies had duly been penned, both men looking somewhat irritated at being put on the spot. Whatever their willingness to listen to their wives in private (both liked to think of themselves as reasonable men who took their wives' council seriously) neither had particularly relished the prospect of being seen by their comrades as subject to petticoat rule.

So now they found themselves in front of the castle. Despite the fact that it had been abandoned many scores of years earlier, it nonetheless had functioning gates, wrought of sturdy iron and thick oak. The gates were firmly shut.

There came the sound of a bugle from above, and the men looked up.

Queen Arwen, together with Queen Lothíriel of Rohan, her mother the Princess of Dol Amroth, and the White Lady, Princess of Ithilien appeared. They seemed, as far as Erchirion could tell, to be dressed in night attire – specifically, the sort of night attire a respectable woman might wear on her wedding night (or so he gathered; he was as yet unmarried), and a less respectable woman might wear in the course of her vocation as a gentleman's mistress (of which he had slightly more experience). Anyway, the robes were of fine silk and lace, with rich embroidery depicting beautiful flowers, birds and intricate patterns. And of a most clinging design. Revealing every curve in fact. Erchirion wondered whether it was at all proper to see his queen in such attire. Or, for that matter, his cousin's wife (whom, it was a public secret, had taken up with his cousin in the aftermath of the siege of Minas Tirith, living as man and wife a full five months prior to their wedding). He couldn't help but reflect that the clinging silk gave quite an insight into why his cousin's famous restraint, nay, almost monkish approach to life, had crumbled within a matter of mere weeks of meeting his glorious shieldmaiden. He was, however, mortified to see that the gathering included his sister, and couldn't even bring himself to look at his mother. 

Éothain, meanwhile, was subject to no such qualms as he gazed upon the beauties arrayed on the battlements above him. His first thought was “Bloody hell, the King's a lucky bastard,” rapidly corrected to “both Kings are lucky bastards.” His second thought was “And his sister's far too good for a bloody Gondorian.”

He took a glance at the faces of their husbands. Elessar had that closed look that gave nothing of his feelings away, but somehow left one with the impression that he was calculating the strategic advantages and disadvantages of a situation at lightning speed. Imrahil, looked as urbane as ever, and quietly amused. Éomer looked furious, that characteristic look Éothain was familiar with, which betokened an explosion in the not too distant future. Faramir just gazed straight at his shieldmaiden with a smile on his face, as if revelling the feeling that some sort of challenge was about to be made. At least, Éothain mused, the man had the sense to know when he was onto a bloody good thing, even if he was a bloody Gondorian.

Accompanying them were three Haradrim women, clad in gauzy silks and, as was their custom, with veils drawn across their lower faces. It was Erchirion who took a glance sideways at the Haradrim contingent, and could see faces like thunder. They were not at all please at their women folk strutting upon the balcony thus attired. 

Perhaps most surprising though, was the addition of two of the foremost courtesans of Minas Tirith, also wearing sumptuously embroidered night attire. No mistaking the glorious curves and ample bosom of Mistress Nimwen – Erchirion thought back fondly to the magnificent three months when he had been posted to Minas Tirith as military attaché to his uncle, and she had lived under his protection in a small but luxurious set of apartments conveniently near to the Dol Amroth family town house. His father had thrown a fit when he saw the bill, but it had been worth every castar in Erchirion's opinion, even though he'd been forced to pay it back from his military stipend over the next two years. 

His musings were interrupted, however, as Arwen began to speak.

“My king and beloved husband, kings and princes of the Men of the West, kings and princes of the Men of the South, before we begin, may I offer my thanks that you have come to parley? I shall not tarry long in speech, for the point we wish to make is most succinct. Unlike the War of the Ring, where we fought a clear evil, this war over disputed territory serves no greater good. It is vainglorious. It is futile. It spills the blood of our sons, our husbands, our brothers, needlessly. We therefore wish you to stop forthwith and negotiate a fair and equitable peace settlement. By talking to one another.

“To encourage you to concentrate on the task in hand, we, the women of Gondor, have decided to take refuge in this castle. And to deny you the support and comfort of married life, and most especially, the delights of the marriage bed, until such time as you come to your senses. Until you sheath your swords of iron, you will not be sheathing the swords that lie closest to your persons. Until you lower your spears of wood, we will not allow you to raise your spears of need. Until you agree to abjure from riding to war, we will not ride you upon satin sheets.

“Since we are aware that some of you may be prepared to seek delight elsewhere, we have (as you can see) come to an arrangement with the professional ladies of our respective cities, whereby we compensate them for lost income, and they join us in our retreat.

“And now, just to remind you what you are missing…” She nodded gracefully to her companions.

As one, with fluid movements, all the women upon the battlements let their garments drop to the floor. Silk, satin and gauze pooled about their ankles.

Éothain's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. Such a variety of glorious female bounty before him! Pert, neat breasts. Classically rounded globes. Voluptuous full breasts. Pillowy bosoms in which a man could lose himself… Flat stomachs betokening an athleticism that surely spoke of considerable gymnastic ability. Rounded, downy stomachs that a man could rest his cheek upon in sublime comfort… Rounded hips and soft buttocks a man could fill his hands with as he thrust to the hilt. Pert bottoms and toned thighs which could wrap themselves round a man as he lifted his woman up to meet him and pressed her against a wall. Soft, ample thighs a man could subside into as she reclined on a soft, welcoming bed. Every shape and form of female beauty imaginable. His jaw sagged open. However, he did not have much time to appreciate the wonders arrayed before him.

Again as one, at a slight signal from Arwen, the women turned heel and disappeared into their high tower upon their high hill.

_**Scene 3 – Beside the wadi – a parley** _

The men of both sides spent the first few days in a state of considerable irritation and in some cases annoyance. Éomer's first instinct (driven as much by mulish stubbornness as military acumen) was to continue with their military strategy anyway. Elessar, though, had always been less convinced of the value of the war, and had largely got drawn into it when incursions from the Haradrim and the resulting responses of some of his minor nobles on the banks of Anduin had forced his hand. Nonetheless, reluctantly, he accepted that the war, now started, must be finished. Imrahil and Faramir were in favour of trying to negotiate a peace treaty, but even their combined efforts did not carry the day, at least not at first.

However, as time went on, the troops got restless. This was caused in large part because the camp-followers who normally entertained them had become decamped-followers, and taken themselves off to the castle on the crag, lured by promises of ample food, company, financial recompense for lost earnings, and a welcome rest from their tireless activities. 

Eventually they conceded that they might at least have to have some sort of temporary truce with the Haradrim.

They met in a hastily erected tent by some palm trees in the wadi. The meeting was somewhat tense (not least because of the men's current deprivations). The lords of the West were not inclined to compromise; the kings of the Haradrim did not see why they should cede any ground. Talks might have foundered completely, had it not been for the arrival of a messenger – this time a young Haradrim woman on one of their swift desert horses.

Imrahil read the missive aloud.

_From Her Majesty Arwen Undomiel, Queen of the Reunited Kingdom, from Queen Lothíriel of the Riddermark, and from the Queens of the Haradrim, to the Lords of the West and Kings of the Haradrim, greetings._

_We and the other ladies of our entourage have decided to proffer an olive branch. While we do not for a moment think you will be successful, such is our mithril-hard resolve, we make you this offer: you may come to the front of the castle upon the heights, in pairs, to try to woo your respective spouses. The only condition upon this is that the pairs must be drawn from both sides._

_Should you be successful, we will come down from our fastness, and you may continue your pointless war. If you fail, we expect you to draw up fair and equitable peace terms._

The men were not, of course, privy to the discussions which had taken place behind the scenes among the women. Discussions might not be quite the right word in fact – grumbling complaints about their own levels of frustration might have been nearer the mark. Had the men known this, they might have put up more of a fight, but as it was, they saw no option but to agree.

_**Scene 4 – the green in front of the castle – the first attempt** _

The first pair to try their luck comprised Arwaz of the Desert Nomads and King Éomer. As they rode up the hill, Éomer took the opportunity to assess his opponent. The man handled his horse well, he would give him that. And he was a well-built, strong looking man. He could see Arwaz returning his gaze, no doubt assessing him in return.

“So, how do you propose to woo your queen?” Arwaz asked.

Éomer paused for a moment before answering. Would his words give an insight into his character that Arwaz might use against him at some point in the future? The man's face seemed open enough, his tone lacked any hint of guile or duplicity. Éomer decided to take the man's words at face value.

“My lady and I have always had a relationship built on the notion that opposites attract. She is a scholarly, intelligent woman skilled in the healing arts, I am a warrior first and foremost. I know that honeyed words would not work, for she is more skilled with words than I. No, I hope to remind her how much she likes the strength of my body.”

To Éomer's surprise, Arwaz threw back his head and laughed heartily. 

“You are the first Gondorian to deal with me honestly, I think, rather than trying to hide behind a wall of words which hint one thing but mean another. We are well matched – I too am a fighter before all else, and my chief wife relishes my muscles and sinews.”

“Possibly because I am not Gondorian, my lord. I am a man of the Mark, and we are plain-spoken.” Éomer looked thoughtful for a moment. “Some competitions of strength then? Throwing spears, lifting rocks?”

Arwaz agreed. “And perhaps a wrestling match.” He held a hand up. “While we are still out of sight of the castle, may I suggest we perhaps prepare… our appearance?”

Éomer stared at him in surprise. Arwaz's meaning soon became clear however, when he began to unlace his silk shirt, and pulled it over his head. He gave a wolfish grin and said “Let them know what they are missing.”

From high on the battlements, Lothíriel and Arwaz's Queen looked down on the stretch of green. On seeing both men approach, chests bared, Lothíriel rolled her eyes.

“They think one glance at a muscled torso and we will be putty in their hands,” she said, dismissively.

The Haradrim woman gazed at the two men with considerable interest. “You do have to admit, they look rather impressive.”

“Yes, but my resolve will not falter… oh…” This last noise was occasioned by Éomer flexing his muscles as he warmed up, before throwing his lance a remarkably long distance.

By the time the two men got to wrestling, both women were feeling really quite hot and bothered. It required the intercession of Arwen herself to put some backbone into the two of them. Reluctantly, in rather unconvincing tones, the two of them sent their suitors packing – then went in search of a butt of cold water in which to dunk their heads.

_**Scene 5 – the green in front of the castle – the second attempt** _

The next turn belonged to Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and King Nadim. As they rode up the hill, the two men fell to talking.

“What strategy do you propose to employ?” Faramir asked, in quite passable, if somewhat stilted Haradric.

“Music. Music is the way to woo a woman,” Nadim responded. He halted for a moment (if he had but known, in the same place as Arwaz the day before), taking from his saddle bags a carefully padded parcel, which he proceeded to unwrap. Within it was an oud.

“Ah, clearly we have come up with similar strategies,” Faramir responded, producing a hautboy from his saddle bags. This was enough to break the ice, and the two men fell to talking about the music of their respective countries, the different modalities of scale their cultures favoured, knotty problems involving quarter tones, how complex polyphony could become before one lost the thread of the melody. Faramir found himself thinking that in different circumstances, the two of them could have become friends.

At last they rounded the final turn in the path that wound up through the craggy cliffs. Faramir dismounted, then settled cross-legged on the ground with his hautboy to carefully trim a reed with his knife. “Do you want to make the first attempt?”

Arwaz gave a gracious bow, and sat upon a rock, beginning to strum upon his oud.

High on the battlements, Éowyn found herself standing next to the Princess of Madruk and her mother (who had become unofficial translator). Far below, Nadim's strumming turned to a more purposeful tune, ornamented by a sequence of rippling arpeggios. He began to sing in a pleasant tenor voice. The princess gave a snort of irritation, and muttered something in Haradric. Her mother translated.

“My son of the marriage, he is a fool. He thinks all he has to do is sing of love and she will come down from the battlements. But she says she will hold strong.” The old lady paused for a moment, then rolled her eyes. “Ah, if I were young, and the blood ran strong in my veins still, and a handsome young man sang of love to me, I would go down.”

Éowyn gave a disgusted snort at this sentiment, and patted the young princess's shoulder in solidarity. Then Faramir began to play. Not, as she had anticipated, a languorous love song, but rather a fearsomely difficult, fearsomely fast piece full of arpeggios and trills and rapid, staccato notes.

“The bastard!” Éowyn hissed.

The old lady raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner. Éowyn explained.

“He's reminding me just what he's capable of doing with his tongue.”

The old lady roared with laughter.

Once more it took the intercession of Arwen to put some backbone into her sisters and persuade them to send the men packing. The water butt was put to use once more.

_**Scene 6 – intermezzo. Inside the castle ruinous.** _

Arwen found herself surrounded by a group of women, all chattering at once.

“I need to go home to tend to my garden…”

“Aye, sure you do. Would that be the triangular garden, by any chance?”

“I've realised there are lots of things round my house need polishing.”

“I have some sausages need stuffing.”

“Oh, what I wouldn't do for a bit of sausage stuffing myself.”

“I've a mouse hole that needs stopped.”

“I have some most delicate plants – calla lilies – that need attention.”

“I'm hoping to get a bun in the oven before the Autumn leaves begin to fall.”

In the end Arwen had to resort to climbing onto the table. She stood there, hands on hips, looking somewhat less than regal. “Enough!” she shouted. “No-one is going anywhere. Not until our men folk have been brought to heel. Remember what brought us here – the fear of them falling in battle in a needless war. There'll be no polishing, no stuffing, no buns in ovens, ever again, if the silly fools die.”

The women fell silent, but Arwen was left with the impression that mutiny was not far away.

_**Scene 7 – the green in front of the castle – the final attempt** _

The final attempt fell, of course, to Dawud Al Imbar and Elessar.

As they rode up the winding track, Dawud said conversationally, “You know they're right, of course.”

Elessar let go a sigh of relief. Someone had finally said it. (Well, someone on the Haradrim side, at any rate. Faramir and Imrahil had been annoyingly right about this all the way along.) 

“They are, but the question is, how do we get out of this impasse without losing face?” he replied.

Dawud gave a laugh. “It will be nigh on impossible, I fear. I suspect this whole plan to have been initiated by my wife. She is a very clever woman, and very brave. Brave enough, my spies tell me, to have ridden all the way to Gondor, by way of Ithilien.”

Aragorn fell silent for some time, musing upon the problem. Then he said, “What strategy did you have in mind?”

“Poetry… love poetry. The meeting of the great warrior Bakir and the lady Sakina, amid the rose gardens of the city of Wadi Milh.”

“As had I. I had thought to recite the part of the Lay of Leithian where Beren first comes upon Lúthien, pursues her through the woods, woos her and takes her in his arms. For thus it was with my wife – descendant of Lúthien – and I when first we met in the Golden Woods.”

“You had thought… but now you wonder whether this is right?” Dawud and Aragorn shared a look of mutual understanding.

Aragorn smiled. “I wonder now whether the section of the epic poem where Lúthien rescues Beren from Morgoth's stronghold might be more appropriate.”

“Ah,” said Dawud. “I think I understand your change in tactics. Perhaps I could sing of the woman who won her freedom from a fearsome tyrant by telling stories of such beauty and fascination that she avoided death for a thousand and one nights, eventually winning her freedom through her quick wits.”

“Just so,” said Aragorn. He held out a hand. For a moment, Dawud hesitated, then he clasped Aragorn's forearm in a warrior's salute. The two rounded the final corner, and dismounted from their horses. Side-by-side they sat upon the ground, and began to recite.

_**Epilogue – the great hall of Merethrond, six months after the signing of the peace treaty.** _

Aragorn found his steward deep in conversation with Dawud Al Imbar and Nadim of the coast.

“It was charming to talk to your queen earlier, King Dawud,” Faramir was saying. “She is an intelligent and fascinating woman. But her name – it does not sound Haradric to me.”

“No, for it is not, it is a name in a different tongue entirely,” said Dawud. “She comes from a small city state further south even than Nadim's realm – a city state renowned for the strength of its armies and the wisdom of its philosophers.”

Aragorn interrupted, with a slight bow of his head, just enough to acknowledge the other's rank, but without show of deference. “I don't think I caught your queen's name.”

Dawud returned the inclination, and smiled. “She is called Lysistrata.”


End file.
